It's Better Here (rewrite)
by WeAllLoveHiccup
Summary: Toy soldiers crack. Wooden houses splinter. Fabricated peace is just that, only lasting until built up walls prove flimsy and crash down in a red haze, leaving one broken, sober mind alone to pick up the pieces. Left alone to echoes and whispers while the one he sent on sings in the clouds: it's better here.


**Rewrite of my first fic because it was just** _ **that**_ **bad.**

 _Crack_

A meaty hand grips a bony arm, twisting it the wrong way until the bone splinters and breaks; like a wooden toothpick crudely taped by a child to a broken toy soldier in false hope of making it whole again.

You're not a Viking.

 _Smash_

Greedy hands, now spattered with blood that hazy, grey eyes somehow missed, grab the other arm and send it the same way, emitting a wet snap and a shriek. Those sounds also fail to penetrate through the high pitched red haze.

 _Crunch_

A hard boot drives into a fragile chest, crashing through the delicate structure like a rock through a wooden stick building.

You're not my son.

With a last painful, helpless wheeze, forest green eyes flutter closed for the last time as the familiar clank of a forged metal sword sounds too near and the body's last instincts take over, one last attempt at survival.

The ever prevalent pain heightens to just over too much, like a singing kettle about to boil over until finally, all feeling stops, one final croaky whisper from the broken voice in his head whispering: _stop breathing, let go._

Laboured breathing sends the smell of strong mead swirling around the pale corpse as Stoick leans down with a sneer on his face. He kicks the tiny form beneath him and struts away, humming, unknowingly leaving everything he had left dead in a pool of his own blood.

oOo

Golden light shimmers up above as Hiccup takes a shaky step forwards. A soft, white tunic and silky, golden brown pants cover his body and his pale, freckled skin is finally unmarred. He runs his hand through his silky auburn locks and gasps.

Standing there, in the golden gate, wearing a white dress with a gold belt is a blonde haired shield maiden with shimmering blue eyes.

"Hiccup!" She catches sight of him and bounds forward, scooping up the surprised boy in a hug.

"What took you so long?"

"Dad didn't want me here with a single bone intact."

She pulled back, shock dancing through her gaze.

"Your father killed you?"

"Stoick the vast. Drunk off his head but no less scary."

" _Oh Hiccup_!"

"Oh Astrid. What happened to you? Drunk Fishlegs?"

She gave a tiny snort and peeked at him through her fringe. "Nadder spine through the head." She fingered a tiny round, white scar on her head. The only blemish on her milky skin.

"Ooh"

"Short, but painful."

"The leg came last. Chopped it right off."

He rolled up his pant leg to reveal a pristine, white prosthetic, carved in the shape of a foot and engraved with everything beautiful.

They shared a glance and gawked together.

"Shame they have to keep the wound that killed you."

She just nodded vaguely, her ice blue orbs tracing every line, curve and twist of the light, beautiful shape replaced as his foot.

"You're so strong, Hiccup."

His emerald gaze shot upwards, disbelief and hope crossing his eyes.

Soft, pink lips met their equal. Hiccup gasped in surprise before threading his long, nimble fingers through her silky blonde braid. Astrid deepened the kiss and pulled him closer, her hands on his shoulder blades. They stayed joined until the need for air made itself known. He gazed at her fondly, weaving his fingers through a loose strand of her hair.

Astrid laughed again. "Cmon babe, lets explore our new home together! Sorry you had to leave Berk so young."

"It's alright milady. It's better here anyway." He offered his arm for her and she took it, laughing as she tugged him along, exclaiming at the beauty, breathing with easy happiness, forever.

oOo

A pounding headache woke the Chief, worse than any others he'd had before. He remembered the way too real nightmare of him disowning and killing his son. And nothing else.

The ringing in his ears faded and he immediately missed the noise. The non existent noise. No echoes or whispers; the house was an eerie quiet that only came when Hiccup was out.

 _Wait. Hiccup is out! This is bad, bad, really bad, destruction, fire, pain, really bad._

The chief stumbled out of bed, groaning and clumsily clomping down the stairs.

He half sleep walked to the kitchen to grab a tankard of water. On his way, his still booted foot knocked against something cold and soft. Cold stone walls of echoes, soft tendrils of smokey whispers. He turned to glare at the offending object, but gasped instead. Echoes deafened and whispers roared. A pale face that would almost look asleep if it weren't for the large, mottled bruise covering his face like a tea stain on a perfect, peaceful picture. As soon as Stoick's eyes travelled lower he wished they hadn't. Splinters of white ripped through worn, forest coloured clothes that were darkened to black through blood. Black and white. Like a horrid picture with all the colour drained out, lulling with a false sense of the surreal, false, fake.

The echoes were booming now, flashing white pictures splattered with sick, dark red words.

You're not a Viking.

You're not my son.

The cold, unmoving, mangled heap could well not be his son if it wasn't for the bloody, dusky mop of faded auburn flopping lifelessly over grey, closed lids hiding shots of happiness, of forests and green and Valka. Snapshots in a too short time that he would never see again. Memories fade with nothing to keep them alive.

He begged it to move with his eyes, staring at the obvious corpse with misplaced hope.

 _Move._

 _Move. Move. MOVE!_

Foreign tears swam in his eyes, distorting the pale hand he was glaring at enough that he would think it twitched.

The small, final burst of hope and the ultimate crash of reality was too much. He removed his hastily put on helmet and bowed his head, weeping and bawling like a small child over a broken toy soldier in a crushed wooden house.

 _Dead... Valka... drunk... only son... murderer... MURDERER... no family. No hope. No reason to live._

That was how he lived. Broken, crying at weapons, whispering dull orders, breathing raspy and fast, forever.

 **There ya go guys,** _ **it's better here 2.0**_ **featuring those two lil cliche sentences that I hate. So. Much.**

 **This took an embarrassingly long time to redo because I had to work up the courage to read the old version and then stop and cringe at every line! The middle bit is largely unedited because honey I still can't fluff. Like angst, death and all things dark please.**

 **So if you think it was good or bad or you want me to kill myself, leave a review!**


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